Warlords of Pez and The Rubberbandits, Twisted Pepper
Trying to be good, I didn’t really want to like Friday night’s Twisted Pepper support act Rubberbandits, who take the piss out of the IRA and prance around with plastic bags on their heads. As someone who’s had years of “What?” thrown back like the crack of the century, naturally I’m not gonna think slagging […]
Trying to be good, I didn’t really want to like Friday night’s Twisted Pepper support act Rubberbandits, who take the piss out of the IRA and prance around with plastic bags on their heads. As someone who’s had years of “What?” thrown back like the crack of the century, naturally I’m not gonna think slagging deaf people is funny. And also, hailing from SUV Stab City, Limerick rappers tend to leave a rank taste.
Rubberbandits pranced out like total dickheads, pointing and spilling beer froth everywhere. One fella was naked except for a leather jacket and crusty pants, sporting a Stetson and shades over his mask, and you get the impression he’s what David Carradine must have looked like at his fateful last breath. The other fella just looks like an armed robber, dressed in a wifebeater and tatty trackies, complete with scrawls of ‘DOGS‘ and ‘HASH‘ on his biceps.
you get the impression he’s what David Carradine must have looked like at his fateful last breath
Musically they’re cool in a novelty way. I reckon there’s a shelf-life on their masks. However Irish people aren’t cut out for emceeing so you don’t often catch decent Hip Hop on the home circuit. The ‘Bandits must have spent years getting monged in each other’s gaffs and it shows as they rapped against each other with ease, although a little slurry at times. That might just have been the cans of Tuborg though. Backed up by a DJ, their set was bassy and ballsy with the boys at the front sweating testosterone and roaring along to Too Many Gee.
As a lone female at the sexist Warlords of Pez‘ MEN ONLY show, disguised by a fake moustache, I realised there was nothing serious about any of this: just a Guy Thing. Fuck fannies, hearing aids and principles, you’ve gotta laugh and sing along: “Ooh, aah, up the ‘Ra…”
The Pez, now…hadn’t performed in ages, held in somewhat mystical high-esteem as cranky dictators of a clandestine rock Illuminati, known for bizarre costumes and to some of my friends, purveyors of the worst Irish album ever.
I’d heard the same album and didn’t think much of it. Bit fucking childish isn’t it, to sing about shit? Yet, when this gig was announced, I knew I was going. Time to put the old gig vs album trial to work.
Forewarned of black costumes looking something like West Virginia Klansmen meets Longleat Safari Park, and a collective imagination resembling a slurry pit, nonethless the sight presented on the Twisted Pepper stage was a turning point of my rock photography career. I’d never, ever been confronted with such a rampantly psychotic band. I’m all for slow-burning instrumental sets but you never realise how boring it all is until you’re faced with a kidnapped street performer strapped to a sandwich board of lyrics. Five minutes in, my face already hurt.
A shark manned the decks and a horse played bass while a baby-faced ghoul beat the drums.
Veering from short punky bursts to slow-stompers, rockabilly and metal, bursting lyrics about monster voices, snowmen, Padre Pio and of course, being a male-orientated show, loads about what total sluts women are, it was deadly. Along with the freaky Clippity-Clop and fucked-up tongue-twisting Gilly Gilly Push, the whole set was one huge display of insanity.
A shark manned the decks and a horse played bass while a baby-faced ghoul beat the drums. The guitarist reanimated from Knightmare would chill the blood of a hardened criminal, and let’s not forget the fly/bird/jellymould hybrid MC. Not to mention frontman tag-team of Power Ranger monkey and giraffe overlord.
The audience loved every second and macho adoration diffused the faces of the horde like Littluns. This was some Lord of the Flies male-bonding shit, asinine American Pie. They’d make a killing at frat parties. They screamed for the removal of shirts, to lower to the floor, to catch bananas. They’d bawl, roar, grab the stuffed cocks of their costumes and gesticulate wildly. Conspicious females were singled out for a jeer, the Rubberbandits crashed the stage and the JellyFly romped through the audience, trailing mic cable and maribou feathers.
Warlords of Pez seem transported from The Regulators, from a breach between worlds that unleashes a stream of depraved mutant pranksters into this staid lil’ scene where Gibson SGs are played by guys in t-shirts gazing at a far spot on the wall. Intermittent gigs, masks and shite albums aside, the Pez don’t have the shelf-life problem: as a live band, the Warlords will reign supreme until there’s no more funny shit to sing about.
Click here for more photos from the gig.